


You, Me, and Her

by shinymathom



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Meetings, Getting Together, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-19 03:43:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22337926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinymathom/pseuds/shinymathom
Summary: Human AU.Aziraphale Fell is grieving the death of his wife when he meets her evil ex boyfriend. But things are always a bit mysterious when it comes to Her side of the story, so he decides to give Anthony Crowley a chance.orThe ex of my ex is my... boyfriend?
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Anathema Device
Comments: 26
Kudos: 61





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to AlchemyAssist and SecondHandNews for beta reading, and to CynSyn for supplying the title for this fic when I was stuck on it.
> 
> This wouldn't be possible without the Celestial Biscuit Club holding my hand.

Heat pricked behind Aziraphale's eyes as he leaned against the heavy wooden door and strode out into the sunlight. His vision began to blur as he followed the path of flagstones to a place where he could be alone for a moment. On another day, he might have stopped to admire the bubbling fountain and simple flowers. But today was not that day.

  
He stood on the path, facing away from the funeral home and the chaos within. The tears were falling steadily now, and he was making no effort to stop them. 

  
"Well, that went down like a lead balloon."

  
He heard the voice from behind him, must have passed someone else enjoying the peace and quiet. He began clearing the tears from his face hurriedly so he could turn around to face his guest. As the husband of the deceased, wasn't he a host of sorts for this disaster of a day? 

  
"Oh, don't stop on my account," the voice continued. "Just thought I should let you know I'm here. Some people don't like to cry with an audience."

  
Aziraphale turned then, and saw a man he had never met. "Do you work here?" Judging by his posture, sprawled across one half of a wooden bench, Aziraphale hoped not. 

  
"No, 'm here for the... the thing. Funeral. My ex, actually. Din't even know she was sick." The man took a drag off a metallic water bottle and set it down next to him on the bench. He gestured to the other side in invitation. "How'd you know her?"

  
"She was my wife," Aziraphale said, clasping his hands in front of his stomach and fiddling absentmindedly with the gold ring on his left hand. He took a closer look at the seated man as he made his way to the bench to perch beside him. Long waves of dark auburn hair, mirrored lenses in front of his eyes, black jeans that were just a little bit tight... was that a face tattoo? 

  
"You do look like more her type than I ever did. I'm Aziraphale." He extended his hand to his left and the man took it briefly. 

  
"Fwoo, that's a mouthful! How'd your folks come up with that?"

  
"My parents were both interested in biblical texts. Aziraphael is an angel. Dad spelled it wrong when the nurses asked for a name, and mum insisted on keeping it that way."

  
"An angel. I bet Elle loved that. Always thought she was God incarnate." He dug into the tiny pocket of his jeans and produced a somewhat smushed packet of cigarettes. "D'you mind? I had quit but..." he trailed off, waving the cardboard box in Aziraphale's line of sight. 

  
"Go ahead."

  
The man lit the cigarette behind the cup of his hand and exhaled in a heavy sigh. Aziraphale stared at a young fruit tree, smoke coming into view from his periphery. "She... yes," he trailed off, not sure how much he wanted to share. There was a feeling of anonymity in the moment, not knowing the other man's name, knowing he'd likely never see him again. He pressed his lips together, decided not to say any more. It didn't do, to speak ill of the dead. Least of all at their funeral. 

  
The other man didn't comment, let him sit in slightly awkward silence for a moment before extending his hand and offering the cigarette to Aziraphale. "You could have your own, but it's my last." 

  
The blond reached out and plucked it, bringing it to his own lips and inhaling the acrid smoke. He tried not to cough as he exhaled. "I quit, too. Years ago, now. It's been a hell of a day, though." He passed the cigarette back, fingers brushing against the other man's in the process. 

  
They sat side by side, their smoke mingling in the air above them, handing the cigarette back and forth until the redhead stamped out the end on the ground and put it back in the empty packet. "Can I borrow your phone, mate?" He sounded so casual, Aziraphale decided it couldn't hurt.

  
From his waistcoat pocket, he produced an ancient phone and handed it over with a quizzical look. The redhead's thumbs moved quickly on its keyboard, and then he turned the phone around to show it to Aziraphale. It was the screen to add a new contact. There was a number typed in, and a name. Anthony Crowley. 

  
He looked from the screen to the man, aghast. " _You're_ Anthony?!" Elle hadn't exactly been flattering when she had talked about this man, who had hurt her terribly before she met Aziraphale. But he knew by now, after 10 years of marriage, what she was like. He might like to hear Anthony's side of the story, now he had the opportunity. 

  
The other man huffed a laugh. "I prefer to use my last name, but given your source 'm not surprised you didn't know that." He paused. "You don't have to save it. Just thought you might wanna talk to someone who knew her like you did. Knew what she was like, in private. Not that we'd have to talk about her." He shoved the phone forward. "Just, y'know. If you need a friend," he finished lamely.

  
Aziraphale accepted his phone back, tapping the save button where Crowley could see him do it. He wasn't sure yet whether he could trust him, but he wouldn't have to defend deleting his information if Crowley never knew about it. 

  
"Cool." Crowley gave him a small smile. "Well, I've got a... thing. To do." He rose to stand on legs that verged on too long and began walking back toward the funeral home. Pausing just behind the bench, he murmured "Aziraphale?" The blond turned his head to look up at him. Crowley put a hand on his shoulder. "Sorry for your loss," he said, and turned to walk away. Aziraphale watched him go until it felt strange to do so, wondering how, exactly, he managed to stay upright with a saunter like that.

  
He sat for a few moments, ordering his thoughts before he braved the crowd of mourners once more. He was just about to stand when a bright colored object caught his eye. It was a blue, purple, and pink metallic water bottle. 

  
**********

_Stupid, insensitive..._

  
Driving away from the funeral home, Crowley berated himself. 

  
_Always thinking with your dick! You practically threw yourself at him. Him, a grieving widower at his wife's_ funeral _! Have you no shame at all?_

  
He had retreated to the garden when Gabriel started giving him too many dirty looks. That was a reunion he wasn't keen on having. He'd always hated Elle's sanctimonious brother, and the feeling was mutual. But he wasn't quite finished processing the fact that she was really gone. They would never have the opportunity to apologize to one another. He would have to live with the hurt they caused each other, alone. 

  
So he'd sat in the garden, stewing in unresolved emotions until he could compose himself enough to leave. And then _he_ had appeared. 

He could do this part. Comforting another person, providing what they needed, it made him feel like the weight of his own pain was smaller. He could reach out, offer condolences, however empty they might seem amid the flood of others. 

  
The man turned around to reveal red-rimmed eyes, pale hair just a bit unruly. He was dressed in a worn old suit. He looked wrecked. Despite that, he looked lovely. Crowley was smitten immediately. 

  
_What the fuck does it say about me that I wanted a man who was crying? This guy was married to Elle, he's probably got problems of his own. I'm so fucked._

  
***

  
Crowley was still feeling like an exposed nerve as he parked at the shop, but he poured himself out of the driver's seat anyway and made his way inside. His assistant, Anathema, looked up from her work with a smile as the bell on the door announced his presence. 

  
"Hey, boss!" she greeted cheerily. "I thought you had today off." Her eyes narrowed as she looked more closely at him. "Oh," she said. 

  
"What are you working on?" Crowley asked abruptly. He swung around the counter top to peer at the order form for the arrangement Anathema had been building when he arrived. She let him look, watching the line of his shoulders while he pretended not to notice she was doing it. 

  
"I'm almost finished with this one, but I haven't started the re-potting yet." It was a gentle suggestion, an idea offered up in such a way that he could almost pretend it was his own. 

  
"Right, I'll be in the back, then." He grabbed an apron from the hook and disappeared through the backroom door.

  
He gathered the empty pots, the plants that were getting too big for their current ones, some new soil for their roots to spread out into. It was simple work, but delicate. Each plant he removed from a pot needed attention and care as it made its way to its new home. If he wasn't gentle, some of them would fail to thrive after replanting. Crowley worked in silence for a while, digging his hands into the dirt and tucking each plant in safely, until all of the smaller pots were empty. 

  
Wiping his hands on the apron, he took a moment to look again at the plants he had moved. He heard Anathema clear her throat behind him. "So," she said, coming around to face him, "how was the funeral?"

  
Crowley let out a sigh. "It was just about what I expected, honestly. Her arsehole brother staring daggers at me, the rest of her family being polite but wondering what the hell I was doing there. Oh, and the worst part. I met her _husband_."

  
She cringed in sympathy. "Another enormous wanker like her brother, no doubt."

  
"No." He laughed mirthlessly. "Nope. He was crying. Real, genuine tears." Crowley's hands shook. "And I took one look at him and wanted to fix it all for him. I gave him my number. Put it right in his phone and then I had to get out of there before I got too angry that she managed to hurt a man like that. Like him." He trailed off, realizing that he'd said more than he meant to. 

  
"Oh, fuck," Anathema breathed. "You like him. You like the crying husband."

  
"Ngk," Crowley said, miserably. 

  
"What are you gonna do about it?"

  
"Nothing!" Crowley threw his hands toward the ceiling. "He's probably straight. His wife _just_ died! He probably won't even call. We're having this conversation for no-."

  
"Crowley," she interjected. 

  
"Device," he countered. 

  
"Was that your text tone?" The guitar riff repeated from Crowley's back pocket. "James Bond music," she quirked an eyebrow at him. "You have a text."


	2. Chapter 2

A hand clapped down onto Aziraphale's shoulder, startling him as he tucked the water bottle safely into his messenger bag. "There you are, Fell!" Gabriel's voice boomed. "Thought we'd lost you for a minute there!" His smile was wide, but it didn't meet his eyes. 

  
"Oh, yes," Aziraphale laughed nervously, "I just stepped outside for a moment. Fresh air, you know. Good for you." 

  
"Of course!" Gabriel nodded. "I imagine you'll be getting quite a bit of fresh air during your time off. You might even start jogging." He barked a short laugh. "Just wanted to check in with you and let you know that we are headed out. Little Gabe's getting too fussy, Uriel's already taken him to the car." 

  
"Oh, all right. I'll be back from bereavement leave on Monday next week. I suppose I'll see you at work." Aziraphale wanted to say something about how flippant Gabriel was being about Elle's death, but he supposed everyone grieved in their own way. 

  
"I'll be there!" Gabriel called over his shoulder. His usual false enthusiasm oozed into the air between them, and all Aziraphale could do in response was raise his hand in a little wave. He often felt a bit slimy by association when talking to Gabriel. 

  
***

  
His keys slid into the door easily, and Aziraphale bustled inside. His jacket went onto its hanger and into the hall cupboard. He slipped off his shoes and placed them neatly on the shoe rack. 

  
In the kitchen, he got out the tea and sugar. He filled the kettle and clicked it on. When the water was hot, he poured it. His hands curled around the tea cup, he stared as the tea steeped. And stared. And stared. 

  
He didn't know what he was supposed to do now. For the past month, arriving home had meant hopping in the shower, packing a bag to bring with him to the hospital the next day, and sliding under the blankets to get a few hours of sleep before getting up and doing it all over again. He realized bitterly that he missed the routine. 

  
When his phone rang, his eyes were unfocused and his oversteeped tea gone cold. He found he didn't want it anyway, and dumped it into the sink. It had stopped ringing before he dug it out of his bag, and he opened it to find a missed call from Tracy. Probably more condolences. He liked talking with Tracy, but he didn't have the patience for any more sympathy today. Perhaps he'd return her call tomorrow. 

  
He made to send her a text with some excuse when he noticed the contact information for Anthony, no, Crowley was still active in another app. Should he delete it now? 

  
Aziraphale thought back on all the conversations he'd had that day. Crowley was the only person who hadn't treated him like he was made of glass, like he would shatter at any moment. _Perhaps that's because I was already broken when he found me_ , he thought. _Good heavens I'm getting maudlin._ He swiped a hand across his face and made a decision. 

  
He wanted to speak to Crowley again. Aziraphale fished Crowley's bottle out of his bag and set it on the kitchen table. He snapped a picture and attached it to a text.

  
**********

The first text was a photo. It was from an unknown number, and Crowley was hesitant to open what could be a picture of some stranger's junk. The second text, which read You left this behind. also did not inspire confidence. 

  
"See, it's just..." Crowley started. And then a third text came in, and he shut his mouth with a click of teeth.

  
**Oh, I'm dreadfully sorry! This is Aziraphale Fell. We met earlier today.**

  
"Oh, it is him." He tried to keep the smile off his face; he wasn't trying to give Anathema any more ammunition to tease him with. He opened the photo at last, revealing his bisexual pride water bottle standing on a field of cream colored tartan, a blurry kitchen in the background. 

  
Crowley laughed, showing the string of texts to Anathema. "At first I thought the picture was gonna be a rando dick pic. But-"

  
Anathema took the phone for a closer look. She quickly typed a reply and handed it back to Crowley, a satisfied smirk on her face. 

  
"What did you-?!" Crowley bellowed. He dreaded what he was about to read. **you can return it over coffee :)** "That's-" he glared at her. "Actually that's not bad. If you look at it in the right light it might not even look like I'm _desperate to see him again,_ " he hissed the last bit, and she laughed.

  
"Easy, boss." She put her hands up, as if to fend off an attack. "If you think that's thirsty you should see some of the shit I used to get sent before I got with Newt. Anyway, Mr. "dreadfully sorry", tartan tablecloth _Aziraphale_ is probably not reading into this exchange as much as you are. And you were never gonna make that move so I... just gave you a little push. You're welcome."

  
"I'll give you a push. Off a cliff," Crowley muttered. His heart wasn't really in it, though. She was right, he would never have been so forward. And it probably wouldn't make a difference anyway. Except... except those first three texts had come in quick succession, but now Aziraphale was taking his time replying. _This is ridiculous. There could be any number of reasons for a delay. It hasn't even been that long. I need to calm down._

  
His phone sang again, _finally_ , and he was relieved to read a long text. **Of course. Whenever works for you would be fine. I'm on bereavement leave until next Monday, so I have plenty of time to meet you. Do you have a place in mind? Oh, I don't even know where you live. What are you near to? I live near Angel tube stop (I know) but I'm not particular about where we go. Oh dear, I'm rambling on now.**

  
Maybe this was going to work out after all. Crowley smiled.

  
**********

  
It turned out that Aziraphale did need to pack a bag for tomorrow. He was meeting Crowley at a cafe near the British Museum for breakfast in the morning, and he wanted to be sure he brought the water bottle with him. After giving it a careful wash, he stuffed it and a book into his messenger bag, along with his wallet.

  
His hands smoothed along his waistcoat. The prospect of breakfast with Crowley shouldn't make his stomach flutter with excitement. It was supposed to be a good deed between acquaintances, a simple return of a lost item. It was much too soon for... well, anything else. 

  
It must be the novelty of it that caused the butterflies. If he was being honest with himself, it had been a long time since there was something Aziraphale had looked forward to with anything but trepidation and dread. It was nice to have this new connection, almost entirely separate from the rest of his life, to distract him. 

  
**********

  
It was Wednesday afternoon, and Elle had class, so Crowley found himself wasting time alone in his room. The small grainy television was switched on, and a project was spread out on the desk, but Crowley was stretched out on his bed with a comic book. Lukas often stopped in on Wednesdays and he didn't want to be too immersed in something if the other boy wanted to stop and chat. 

  
Sure enough, within a few minutes there was a knock on his open door. A tall blond boy, a man of nineteen, really, stood in the doorway.

  
"Hey Lukas," Crowley smiled. Lukas dropped onto the bed next to him. 

  
"Hi, Anthony. What are you reading?" He stretched out beside Crowley on the thin bed, peering at the comic. His hair tickled Crowley's cheek, and Lukas's arm was draped over Crowley's shoulders. Crowley felt his cheeks heat up. He'd only ever been this close to Elle before, it felt strange to him that Lukas would be so comfortable with their faces being so close together. 

  
It surprised him how thrilling it was. 

  
He turned to tell Lukas about what he'd been reading, but his mind went blank when he felt the other boy's breath on his lips. What would it feel like to press his own against them? No, he couldn't. They couldn't do that to Elle.

  
His heart was beating fast and his brain was still stalling when Lukas leaned forward and covered Crowley's lips with his own. Crowley's mouth dropped open in surprise and suddenly Lukas had rolled over onto him, taking advantage of his open lips to slide his tongue inside. And oh, it did feel good. There was a war raging in his chest now. Part of him wanted to give in and continue being snogged senseless. Another part of him wanted to stop and throw Lukas out, to shout at him for kissing someone who had a girlfriend. 

  
He never got to find out which side would win.

  
A shrill scream came from the hallway. Crowley found his strength and pushed Lukas away from him, but it was too late. Through his open bedroom door he saw Elle, trembling hands covering her mouth. 

  
Crowley stammered, twisting around to look at her, to explain. It wasn't his fault. He didn't mean to kiss back. 

  
In his desperation, he rolled right off the edge of the bed, and the last thing he saw was the rapidly approaching concrete floor. 

  
Crowley jerked awake. He was breathing hard, but there was none of the terror that usually came with his nightmares. In the fifteen years since his fall he had come to terms with what had happened. Elle had never spoken to him again; he had avoided Lukas. 

  
His left pupil had never recovered, the bloodied lip had. The rumors made him glad he had the sunglasses to hide behind. Elle told anyone who would listen that she had been played for a fool by "that fag" Anthony. She got sympathy from every side. 

  
But that was history. He groped in the dark for his phone, squinting as he unlocked it to check the time. It was an hour before he was supposed to wake up to start getting ready for his breakfast date with Aziraphale. 

  
He flopped back down onto his pillow with a sigh. He should just get up now, get a head start on deciding what to wear. But just thinking about seeing Aziraphale again caused a stirring in his sleep bottoms and, well, he had an extra hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to AlchemyAssist and SecondHandNews, without whom this would be significantly less coherent.


End file.
